


Survival Of The Fittest

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dark, F/M, Oral Sex, Unrequited Love, one-sided Jaime/Brienne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: When you know what a man wants, you know how to move him.(Sansa and Brienne both want Jaime, but while Brienne abides by the rules of courtship, Sansa has no intention of playing fair. Dark!Sansa.)





	Survival Of The Fittest

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another vintage fic of mine, fished out of the depths of the old ASOIAF Kink Meme.

She knows she ought to feel remorse, at least a little bit. The utter absence is appalling and terrifying and gratifying and _satisfying_\- a shiver of triumph puckers her skin into goose-pimples, and she smiles in spite of herself.  
  
_When you know what a man wants, you know how to move him._ The words embed themselves into the grooves of her brain; they linger with her through every waking hour, and they haunt her in her sleep. _But what of me? But what of what I want? _She screams the words into the silent space at the back of her head, waiting for Petyr’s phantom voice to offer an answer...  
  
But he never does. And he never will.   
  
As their lessons reached their climax, Petyr began to train her in the most lethal art of all. _I’ll teach you to take, Alayne. I’ll teach you to seize every opportunity, and you will never have to wait for the giver’s consent. Take what you need._  
  
(_Take what you **want, **_her mind amended. And she did. She did.)  
  
She cannot say when she first decided to want Jaime Lannister. Certainly not when he and Brienne found her in the Vale...certainly not when they began their long and arduous journey north. He represented the shadows of things she would sooner forget; his golden hair and emerald eyes were too familiar, and they made her heart quicken in a way that could hardly be considered pleasant.  
  
Perhaps it began when she first came upon him in the hot springs. The moonlight bathed his body in silver, and she could see every scar, every tear in his skin, the weird scabbing on the stump of his right arm. She could see every wrinkle in his brow, every crease in his neck. And her stomach lurched, but not with dread, not with panic, not with fear. A burning crept down between her legs, and she knew.  
  
But Petyr schooled her well in the art of perception, and she quickly realized that her lust was shared by another.   
  
Jaime and Brienne have an easy repartee; they banter and quip back and forth, they bring smiles to each other’s faces and provide shoulders for leaning. But Brienne’s gazes linger too long, her blushes deepen too far- she looks positively girlish sometimes, as she watches Jaime stoke the fire or pitch the tent. Her pale-tipped lashes flutter, and her pretty blue eyes shine as limpid as those of any silly girl in the Maidenvault.  
  
(As limpid as hers were, once...but that was a lifetime ago. She is so much older now.)  
  
In spite of her best efforts, Sansa cannot rightly tell whether Jaime shares his companion’s esteem. He is fond of her, that much is obvious, and he values their camaraderie. But she can’t be sure whether he sees Brienne as a _woman,_ whether he might want her as a man wants a woman.

A hot fire of competition rages around her heart; _take what you need, Alayne, take it before it is taken from you._   
  
But as the days pass, she discovers her most obvious advantage. For all she’s seen and experienced, Brienne remains a naive maid, expecting the pursuit, expecting the chase. She will not take a man if she wants him; she will wait for him, wait for days and weeks and years, wait forever if she must.   
  
But Jaime knows nothing of pursuit. He first connected with his only lover in the womb- for all his life, she has been his, and he hers. He does not know how to court or woo- he spent his days in Cersei’s thrall, by his leave, by his choice.  
  
He wishes to live out the rest of his days in some sorry approximation of “true” knighthood, all a farcical attempt to regain the honor he lost long ago. And yet she watches his resolve weaken each day; when they walk through the villages, his eyes linger on the breasts and hips of the peasant women. When they retire to their bedrolls for the night, she hears him mutter in his sleep, hears him call _her _name as tears trickle into his beard and his manhood grows harder by the second.   
  
_If he needs to be in love with someone..._  
  
She chooses the following night to act. The moon hangs full over the clearing, its ghostly light flooding their makeshift camp. Brienne takes the second patrol, and as soon as her large frame disappears into the surrounding woods, Sansa slips on her only intact shift. She ties the laces until her waist cinches and her breasts swell, and she removes the pins from her hair. She thinks for a moment to dab some berry juice on her lips and cheeks, but she thinks better of it- she will come to him clad in white, with free-flowing hair and a clean, youthful face.   
  
_The Maiden, offering herself to the Warrior._  
  
But she does reach into her satchel and uncork a tiny vial; she’s carried it with her since King’s Landing, a gift given by the Queen, so very long ago. She dabs the oil behind her ears, and her nostrils fill with the fragrance of lemons and rosewater.   
  
She ties back the entrance flap of his tent, and he wakes with a start. Sansa knows how to tilt her head, how to position herself so that the moonlight streaks through her hair and lights on her high cheekbones and sparkles in her eyes. In her blue, blue eyes.  
  
He does not resist when she lowers herself down and tucks herself against his side. Nor does he protest when she combs her fingers through his hair and presses her warm mouth to his trembling lips. 

His mouth devours hers, and the desire in her belly fans higher and hotter and brighter by the second. He murmurs his sister’s name against her lips, but what does she care? He needs to be in love with someone, and she needs to take what she wants...  
  
She slides down in the bedroll and deftly unlaces his breeches; he groans low in his throat when she takes him in her mouth, knotting his fingers into her blood-red hair and thrusting upward, deeper and deeper.   
  
Sansa hears a rustling in the leaves outside the tent, and her stomach leaps with panic at the thought of Brienne coming upon such a scene. But then she pictures the Maid of Tarth’s face, the dumb animal hurt in her eyes...  
  
_She has been nothing but kind to you_, a shrill voice in the crevice of Sansa’s consciousness protests. But then that voice, the overpowering one, the one that sounds almost like Petyr (but not quite, not quite) drowns it out completely: _Kindness is not always repaid with kindness. We’ve learned that well enough, haven’t we?_  
  
When Jaime comes without warning, his hot seed spilling down her throat, she swallows the fluid down and wipes her mouth with her thumb before kissing her way up his chest and hovering over his lips. The moonlight dances in his eyes, and he looks at her with wonder-   
  
She kisses him, and it’s her own name that he whispers. It’s nearly enough to convince her that she has won.   
  
But not quite. 


End file.
